Music

Monday, January 21, 2013

That was the promise made to potential ticket-buyers during
the fall and winter of 1978, when Richard Donner’s take on the Superman legend was being readied to
soar across Christmastime movie screens all over America. We certainly never
believed (nor were we asked to believe) that George Reeves, the Superman known
to viewers of the popular TV series which ran from 1952 until 1958, could
really fly. And even our faith in all things wise and wonderful wasn’t enough
to convince us that Julie Andrews had really taken to the air with her satchel
and umbrella, to say nothing of the aeronautic abilities of Sally Field.

But after Star Wars
(1977) had premiered a barrage of stylish visual effects, themselves doubling up
on the groundbreaking realism of Douglas Trumbull’s effects work for 2001: A Space Odyssey, expectations had
been, shall we say, heightened. Star Wars
was, of course, fanciful in its own way, and certainly in a way that 2001 was not—no Jawas and Wookiees for
Stanley. Among the light-sabers and countless other visual marvels offered on
George Lucas’s menu, which illustrated a vision of interstellar life whose
influences seemed to indicate that its world existed concurrently in the past and in the future, there was that heretofore-unseen
height of technical sophistication which seemed to plead for a greater
allowance of suspended disbelief on the part of the audience, all the while
feeding them a dazzling level of space-age trickery in order to ensure such
leaps of faith might be easier to make. Superman
promised that we would believe a man (even one from the planet Krypton) could
actually fly, but after having already witnessed Luke Skywalker zooming over
the plains of Tatooine in his land speeder, seemingly suspended on nothing but
streams of air, in many ways we already did.

Of course no one really
thought that Christopher Reeve was up there zooming through the atmosphere
without the help of movie magic, and if we ever even incrementally believed that
a man could fly—and a woman could convincingly hitch a ride on his cape tails—it
had a whole lot more to do with the chemistry between Reeve and Margot Kidder,
and the swooning romanticism that propelled their nighttime cruise over
Metropolis, than it did the degree to which we were convinced by the wire work
and blue-screen techniques employed to get the scene on film. Superman’s effects were, taken as a
whole and truth be told, far more rudimentary and far less convincing than the
ones that bowed in Lucas’s film a year earlier. But the insistence of the
movie’s advertising that belief in what we would see was something we could
expect, well, if it wasn’t exactly new, then it at least carried a whole lot
more weight (supplied by a major movie studio’s marketing power) than the usual
hucksters’ come-ons of exploitation movies past.

The Star Wars and Superman franchises spent the early part
of the 1980s refining their approaches vis-à-vis their technical prowess, and
perhaps cannibalizing themselves to certain degree as well, all while the
market was becoming saturated by low-budget competitors soaked in the fantasy
syntax that the two series inspired. Incessant imitation of their visual
bravado introduced the inescapable sense of a Xerox copy being reconstituted
endlessly, each new generation a little dimmer than the last. And rather than
from the loins of George Lucas or Steven Spielberg, the apparent inspiration
for the next step in the movie audience’s increasing desire to believe would come from a most unlikely
place.

A long time ago, in a time far, far away, before the letters
C, G and I, spoken in that order, meant much of anything to moviegoers, Woody
Allen released a little film called Zelig, the ostensibly slight story
of Leonard Zelig, the Human Chameleon, a nobody so lacking his own character
that in the presence of stronger personalities he begins to co-opt their
physical and psychological attributes. Thematically, Zelig,
a movie posited on the notion that, no, everybody isn’t
necessarily somebody, was a perfect fit within the totality of Allen’s
neurotically fueled canon. And the movie stood out, from Allen’s own
oeuvre as well as from every other comedy in release at the
time, because it was crafted in a mock-documentary style—
Zelig was released in 1983, a year before This is
Spinal Tap, and many years before the mock-documentary became an
overcooked genre of its own. But even beyond the conceit of its structure,
technically it was a step outside the box for American cinema, and certainly outside
Allen’s own comfort zone as a director known more for his visually natural,
restrained palette. (Despite his constant nods toward Fellini, the excesses and
general phantasmagorical reach of Stardust Memories was the
exception, not the rule.)

The movie got mostly positive reviews—Allen had not yet
fallen out of favor with either critics or his soon-to-be-dwindling
audience—though coming between Manhattan (1979) and
Hannah and Her Sisters (1986) Zelig was considered a trifle, absent the writer-director's usual thicket of
seriocomically intertwining relationships and emotional baggage. Pauline Kael
seemed to admire the movie—she called it “an ingenious stunt” that had been
“thought out in terms of the film image, turning the American history we know
from newsreels into slapstick by inserting the little lost sheep Zelig in the
corner of the frame.” But even Kael had to admit, at the end of her review,
that she left the screening hungry for a real movie, presumably one with more
meat on its bones than the one Allen offered.

Seen today the movie looks like a standout in Allen’s
career, one of the most original and innovative movies of the decade of the
1980s, regardless of its comparatively insular qualities and supposed lack of
thematic scope. But Zelig’s real impact, as it turned out,
was in the suggestion of what could be done with that familiar newsreel imagery.
Cinematographer Gordon Willis ingeniously mocked-up and graded down the
gorgeous monochromatic imagery he perfected for Manhattan
and Stardust Memories so that footage of the “little lost
sheep Zelig” could be seamlessly integrated into the same picture with
historical figures like Babe Ruth, Calvin Coolidge and even Adolf Hitler. The
meager audiences that turned out in theaters marveled at Willis’ achievement— Zelig
and Willis were even mentioned on the front cover of the highbrow film journal People magazine upon the film’s release, a level of mainstream coverage
which would require a sex scandal some 10 years later in order for Allen to
duplicate.

But some openly worried that the use of techniques like
those Willis used for Zelig were far too effectively
blurring the lines between realism and the accepted standard of the special
effects of the day—we were suddenly a long way, Dorothy, from fantasy universes
which no one could ever mistake for simple photographic representation of
actual life. The fretting continued just over a decade later when, in an
apparent advance over what Willis had achieved, cinematographer Don Burgess and
a vast array of technicians had their fictional character, a
simpleton by the name of Forrest Gump, not only sitting in the same frame with
well-known figures of history, as Leonard Zelig did, but physically interacting
with them.

This “simple” technical adjustment made for bigger press
than Zelig could have ever dreamed of, but it was also a sticking point for observers
who pointed out that if photographic verisimilitude was the goal, then Zemeckis
and Burgess had fallen far short of it—and maybe that was a good thing. At one
point Gump, played by Tom Hanks, appears on a mocked-up 1963 TV broadcast
during which he appears to shake hands with then-living-President John F.
Kennedy, and nowhere else in the movie did the integration between the
rock-still digitally-based Hanks with the relatively unstable 40-year-old
filmed imagery look less convincing. In fact, the effects in Forrest
Gump were often far more ambitious than they were photorealistic—
that attempt to visualize physical contact between the living and the dead
turned out to be a challenge these technical wizards weren’t entirely able to
bring off. And in 2009 the results weren’t any more convincing-- the
conjuring of 1982-vintage Jeff Bridges to interact with his naturally
Lebowski-fied 21st-century version in Tron:
Legacy was creepy and problematic for many of the same reasons.

Only a very special grade of Gump-grade ignoramus would have
actually believed that Tom Hanks and President Kennedy ever shared physical
space together in order that they could be filmed for a Robert Zemeckis movie. However,
the specter of being able to render the impossible, or alter the accuracy of
realistic representation in graphically acceptable visual grammar, was one that
Forrest Gump raised nonetheless. Suddenly we were in an era
in which computers were being employed to try to convince audiences, if only
momentarily, that the impossible could happen, that it was
happening.

But the purveyors of CGI
have always been a little too convinced of their ability to accurately
represent reality. Some 15 or so years ago the Los Angeles
Times sponsored a series of ads designed to run before the feature in
Southern California cineplexes which cast light on some of the below-the-line
occupations involved in the making of movies. One such group of artists
highlighted were computer effects teams, and the one chosen for the
Times promotion attempted, over the course of the 90-second
spot, to demonstrate how their effects house would go about creating the
digitally generated and animated image of a small basset hound. It was a
fascinating glimpse into a process which has undoubtedly become even more refined
and sophisticated over the passage of time. But there was no avoiding a certain
amount of embarrassment and incredulity when the animators, at the end of the
spot, trotted out their digitally generated creature, placed it next to a shot of
the real thing, and then began to gush over how difficult it is to tell
DigiDog, which bore all the telltale signs of digital rendering, from lack of
realistic texture to imprecise body movement, from the real thing.

Companies specializing in TV advertising have seized upon,
refined, inflated and saturated the market with the possibilities of
computer-generated imagery since long before George Lucas initiated the
all-digital assault of Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the
Clones (2002). The main result has been a double-edged sword, to be
sure: advertisers have broken ground on what they can show us in
ever-increasingly expensive 30-and- 60-second spots that may be entertaining,
but those spots also reinforce our resistance to believe a single thing we see
(or hear) in them. (The Nissan spot seen below goes to great lengths to convince us of a certain reality that our heads insist couldn't possibly play out in real-world physics.)

Do you believe what you just saw?

Digital manipulation of what we see on TV and in movies is so completely pervasive in 2013 that we question even the simplest images. We roll our eyes at a commercial of a mud-caked pickup truck being cleansed by a sudden drenching from above because in the aftermath it looks too damn clean; every speck of grime is washed away in a single thunderous wash, as if the CGI artists-- or the corporation paying for the ad-- couldn’t resist making every inch of that truck sparkle. (A stunt like this in a commercial from 30 years ago would have had to have been staged in physical reality, and it would have been a lot messier.)

But there’s another unexpected bit of fallout from incessant
exposure to the state-of-the-art effects which seem so insistent as to suggest
that only permanent alteration of our perceived actual reality will satisfy the
ambitions behind them. It’s become clearer to me as I watch movies in 2013,
both modern ones and ones that were made in the less technological promiscuous
eras of the 50s, ‘60s, ‘70s and even ‘80s, that I crave the lost art of
sparking the imagination of the viewer. This is not the same thing as creating
a parade of visual effects and techniques intended to fool me into thinking
what I’m seeing is actually happening. In fact, quite the opposite is true. As
a viewer in 2013, the more plain the artifice, the more likely it is that I
will respond—that I will want to respond—to the intended enhancements being
made to the film’s basic storytelling devices. These days I find myself far
more attracted to and definitely more receptive to those movies whose imagery
is less polished, whose effects are clunkier, whose visual schemes are more
obviously set-bound or otherwise inescapably artificial, whose artisans had to
rely on traditional matte paintings and physical effects that made it necessary
for audiences to dive deeper into their stories, to make more concerted efforts
to lose themselves in these conjured worlds.

These sorts of movies, either spectacles or smaller-scale
stories dependent on a certain level of effects magic, couldn’t rely on
technology to bail the filmmakers out by distracting audiences from their
deficiencies. They come from the era of the 1950s, when spectacle was a way of
combating the relative technical constraints of the tube, up through the 1960s,
when the old wineskins of morality and constraints on the depiction of “adult”
behavior were the primary concerns, into the 1970s, when those wineskins were
finally being traded in for more experimental ways of transporting their films’
content. Of course being given the opportunity to flex one’s imaginative
muscles while watching a movie like Jason
and the Argonauts (1964), in which the creatures are stunningly depicted
within the very stylized parameters of Ray Harryhausen’s stop-motion animation
mastery, or even a Japanese horror thriller like The Living Skeleton(1966), in which some of the effects aren’t necessarily
any more “convincing” than the average episode of Dark Shadows, points up that there is room for that imaginative
interplay even while watching a movie which has been, at most all levels,
expertly crafted.

But even the experience of a narratively muddled movie can
be enhanced by its own artificiality. In J. Lee Thompson’s The White Buffalo (1974), Charles Bronson stars as Wild Bill
Hickok, who moves through the beautiful and dangerous landscapes of the West in
pursuit of the mythical title creature, which haunts him from a series of
dreams. If it were made (or remade today), The
White Buffalo would undoubtedly have major emphasis and huge expense (at
least relative to the original film’s budget) lavished upon scrupulous efforts to
render each of its bitter winter landscapes in the most realistic and
oppressively beautiful fashion possible. But would those efforts be able to
duplicate the best element of the flawed movie that actually exists—the eerie
stillness and dreamlike incertitude brought on by the very artificiality of
some of those outdoor sets meant to represent the unyielding and brutal
wilderness, or the hulking fearsomeness of the title creature itself, which was
created in consultation with the great Carlo Rambaldi? Probably not. The fact
is that much of what we “see” in The
White Buffalo, what’s most effective about it, transcends the
shortsightedness of its direction and resonates directly with the fact that its
protagonist is himself operating in a sort of fugue state, all of which is
underlined and reinforced by the strange beauty of the mythologically oriented,
obviously constructed environments Hickok often finds himself moving through.

Conversely, one of the movies made recently which has most
resonated with me in its attempt to forge a perhaps intangible connection to
the mythological through a shared experience of artistic representation did so
with a whole bag of technical trickery at its disposal. The 2010 Norwegian
thriller Trollhunterfused the modern
(here represented by the found-footage documentary) with the fairy-tale
fantastical (a countryside populated by a variety of giant trolls who live
either deep in the woods or inside mountains). And the reason why Trollhunter succeeds so well at bridging
these two points of view is that, rather than running from the supposed
limitations of low-budget animation and effects, it embraces the computer’s ability to enhance
its signature monsters, to make them look both believable in a realistic setting and
fantastical—that is, stylized in the manner of a wood cut
illustration—simultaneously.Trollhunter’s
approach to its effects is not one of making you “believe” that trolls exist so
much as to coax you into accepting that there is a place on the planet—the
gorgeous, rainy climes of the Norwegian mountain countryside—where the fears
and superstitions of a forgotten age have been spliced into a world where the presumption is that found-footage video doesn’t lie, even as we try to construct ever more
elaborate techniques for fooling ourselves into accepting an alternate version
of reality. One of the film’s major set pieces, an encounter on a lonely bridge
at night between one of the titular creatures and the master trollhunter,
decked out in a protective suit you suspect early on might not be up to the
job, displays this sort of eerie fusion
of fairy-tale and modern horror in spades.

And to its credit, Trollhunter
never attempts to do all the work for you. There’s plenty of room,
especially during the film’s many driving sequences, when we’re allowed
to survey the landscape and imagine what might be lurking beneath a rocky hill
or just out of our peripheral vision on the edge of a rainy forest. In this
fundamental way the movie retains a connection with a whole era of films in
which technical prowess could not be relied upon as a safety net, or a
scapegoat, for lazy storytelling.

But one of the stranger developments in this anything-goes
age of computer representation in movies and on television is that, despite all
claims to the contrary, seeing is no longer believing. The utter proliferation
of CGI, itself hardly the purest representation of evil on any stage, has made
us cynical about imagery, which on one hand is obviously a good thing, given
how easy it is now to tinker with that imagery to whatever end. However, in
terms of storytelling the overuse of computer-generated imagery realizes the
complaints naysayers have always leveled against the movies, comic books, TV
and other “lower” forms of pop art—it invites the form to do all the heavy
lifting for us. CGI tends to work best when it is relatively invisible, when it
doesn’t call so much attention to itself, when it enhances the possible, or the
believable, without become a jarring endgame in itself.

It can also work in the way 3D works best, that is, in
service to pulp material that doesn’t demand hyper-realism anyway but instead merely
a stylized take on fantastical material—John Carter’s
effects, for example, have the ultimate sensation one gets from looking at a
series of great old-school matte paintings, as if the Edgar Rice Burroughs book
covers had seeped into the imaginations of its technicians and artists. There’s
no distressed attempt to render this fantasy in anything like what we might
consider Martian, or Barzoomian “realism,” and even though the movie is packed
to the gills with eye-popping digital artifice, somehow the movie resists the
kind of Lucasfilm overkill that scuttled the Star Wars
prequels (and the attempts to fudge the original three films into some
acceptable level of effects “sophistication.”) As Greg Ferrara suggested in a post
on his Cinema Stylesblog last year, the rendering of CGI
imagery has started to take on a certain sameness about it, in the degree of
“realistic” detail and also in effects artists’ apparently irresistible urge to
make reality more special by giving, say, the urban landscapes of Paris a
twinkling vibrancy, an overabundance of detail, they have ceased to trust would
come naturally through a 35mm camera lens. John Carter was
unfairly kicked liked the family mule by most of the press when it came out
last year, but somehow it manages to avoid that sameness that afflicts many other heavily
computer-generated productions.

In many circles all this worry over the way visual effects
have come to dominate what we see, how we see it, even the ways movies are
made, could be (and undoubtedly has been) construed as an old man’s argument. And the positions of people like author and film historian Neal Gabler, who fretted in a very generalized way in the Los Angeles Times recentlyabout a generation
that allegedly finds classic films boring and antiquated, don’t strike too
many blows for dispelling that perception. Obviously for many
young people who consider anything made before 1990 as belonging in the realm of "old movies," the presence of black and white film is a sort of perceived poison, but it doesn’t
seem a game worth playing to label this aversion one which afflicts an entire
generation-- even an old Nebbercracker like Gabler has to admit that “part of this
cinematic ageism is the natural cycle of culture.” But whenever the subject of
the way we perceive older, ostensibly less visually sophisticated movies from
the vantage point of 50 or 60 years on comes up among my own circle of friends,
I always get the feeling there’s something going on beyond simple nostalgia or
the desire to define one’s experience along generational borders.

A while back my friend Larry Aydlette, editor at the Palm Beach Post, dropped a comment on Facebook
that I find typical of this sort of perception, and reassuring to boot. He was
talking about revisiting Paint Your Wagon,
a movie that was never high on anyone’s list of cinematic achievements during
the year, 1969, in which it was released. And quite apart from whether or not
it was a good movie (as I recall, Larry liked it quite a lot), he made the
observation that among the many things to be enjoyed about seeing it again was
the presence of “real, densely populated sets with real people, not CGI stick
figures. It made the film a richer experience.” When I read this, I immediately
thought about that Coliseum filled with cheering little ones and zeroes staring
down at Russell Crowe and Joaquin Phoenix in Gladiator. I wondered if just a little bit of weight not unlike the
“real, densely populated sets” my friend observed in that ill-fated Lee
Marvin-Clint Eastwood musical might not have helped Ridley Scott’s
Oscar-approved spectacle from seeming as if it were about to float away on the
first stiff breeze, as most movies seem to that are built around attempts to
generate a degree of CGI realism, a mere 10 years or so down the line. For me,
it comes down to not feeling as if I have to be constantly on my guard,
questioning the representative veracity (or lack thereof) of every damn shot.

It’s not just about what feels or looks real, though. Plenty
of movies that I love, even on the most base level, have precious little to do
with being in any way “realistic” or displaying any interest in making me
believe what I’m seeing could in any way actually be happening. One of the
signature shots of the studio era, when it comes to spectacles based at sea
particularly, is the studio tank shot, in which a battleship or a fishing boat
or some other vessel is seen floating on an relatively smooth ocean surface
bereft of the kind of white-capping wave activity or vessel movement that is
the hallmark of documentary footage. These shots are usually accompanied by blatantly
false background skies or constructed in such a way that emphasizes how the
water has a peculiarly antiseptic look, a clue that the only life hidden
beneath its surface is the buildup of algae clinging to the tank walls. They’re
also some of the most easy to recognize and, therefore, easiest to disparage
and feel superior to, for those who have a tendency toward the indiscriminate
MST3K-ification of our movie past.

Conversely, it’s entirely possible to appreciate a boat
afloat on a soundstage studio tank solely on the basis of its very artificiality.
Richard Harland Smith, writer for Turner Classic Movies’ Movie Morlockssite, admitted in a recent Facebook conversation a special
affinity for this familiar practical effect, which has probably never once
really fooled anyone into thinking it was anything but obvious trickery:

Scenes set at
sea but filmed in a water tank on a patently obvious soundstage have always
filled me with a wonderful sense of dread and wonder. I suppose Toho is to blame,
as any shot at sea in one of their movies ultimately ends with some behemoth
rising up out of the drink to snap a fishing trawler in half. But Hammer's The Lost Continent (1968) contributed to
this latent fear as well, bless it. I miss the days of practical fakery in the
movies. Stormy seas have never been the same… With the old Toho
water tank gambit, you were always waiting for some guy in a monster suit to
jump up, ooga-booga style, to scare you. It's really a primitive, childlike
effect... that works a charm. Every. Time. It's too bad an establishing shot of
a water tank sea these days will draw ‘knowing’ laughs from movie audiences,
even ones who should be more charitable to old school special effects.

And speaking of Toho, recently I had
a chance to revisit one of my old favorites, the none-too-revered King Kong vs. Godzilla (1962). It was
delightful to remember how fascinated I once was by this movie—the first Toho
production I actually saw on the big screen—and how it retained a certain
fascination even through viewings on afternoon TV when I was considerably older
and more aware of how movie effects were achieved. While watching this classic
battle of titans again this year, I thought a lot about the gulf between what
captivated us as children and how we supposedly become more sophisticated from
years of following the development of special effects, and how we often reject
some of these early spectacles as too silly or somehow less worthy of our
attention because the tricks are easier to see through. Despite their
reputation for obvious or “cheesy” effects (Oh, how I’ve come to hate that
word), it’s easy to see why the Japanese monster movies, often orchestrated by
physical effects master Eiji Tsuburaya, and many of their descendants, have
held such sway over kids, even spilling over into appreciation by manga and
anime enthusiasts.

It’s because these orgies of destruction, these epic battles
staged over the skylines of cities just waiting to be decimated, are almost
literally the incarnation of a child’s most elaborate dream of toy sets come to
life. There’s a sequence about halfway through King Kong vs. Godzilla in which the military
digs a big hole in the ground to use as a sort of Burmese tiger pit in
ensnaring one or both of the monsters, and I couldn’t help but be struck by all
the shots of construction equipment digging around in the dirt, dump trucks
moving loads of earth around, and noticing how the scene was exactly the sort
of scenario boys play at all the time in their backyards, perhaps even staging
battles between their favorite monsters in the same way. Seeing this scene
played out on the big screen as a kid was thrilling, and despite our apparent
hunger as a culture for ever-escalating levels of “realism” in our movies,
those scenes still worked on me in the same way. I feel sure that the special
effects wizards who recreated Los Angeles and the Santa Monica Pier, that
rolling Ferris wheel and the lurking Japanese submarine captained in that giant
studio tank by Toshiro Mifune in 1941
were after some of the same feeling of awe, of imagining that the biggest
things in the world were really only our play toys. And look what we did with
‘em, Ma!

The pursuit of those ever-escalating heights of “realism” is
what bothers me most about Peter Jackson’s The
Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. It has been said that the inauguration of
the movie’s highly touted 48-frames-per-second projection speed (known as HFR,
or high frame rate) was created so that viewers might experience an immediacy
of imagery unlike any ever seen in a movie before. One might reasonably ask
what use a movie so steeped in the make-believe as another epic journey through
Tolkien’s Middle Earth so obviously is might have with a heightened sense of
“realism.” But beyond logic, the unfortunate side effect of this revolutionary
technique seems to be that it has rendered much of the movie’s imagery as
looking far “fakier” (to co-opt a phrase in heavy usage when I was a kid) than
did anything in the three films of Jackson’s previous trilogy. A side effect,
perhaps, of trying to bring what is essentially an animated action film into
the realm of perceived reality without initially shading the imagery more
toward realism to begin with? It’s a question for someone far more technically
accomplished and fluent than I am, that’s for certain.

The most accurate and
damning description I can think of, one which was echoed over and over again in
a roundup of critical consideration of The
Hobbit and its HFR experiment, is that it’s like watching a big, loud
action epic on a badly calibrated HDTV set in the middle of a CostCo or some
other big box store. Experiencing The
Hobbit for myself, I not only came to realize that there is a point where
image clarity as an end in itself is something less than desirable, but I also
began to worry about what this blind pursuit of technological innovation for
its own sake means for the way movies might be made in the future. If this sort
of visual debacle, in which one of our most technologically minded directors
really seems to believe that what he’s achieved is the wave of what’s to come,
a new standard for digitally created imagery, then really what hope is there
for retaining anything of magic, of what is consistent, even when digitally
recreated, with the texture and quality of film?As far as waves of the future go, I’m much more heartened by what Ang
Lee and his battery of artists and technicians have achieved in adapting Yann
Martel’s seemingly inadaptable Life of Pi
into a satisfying, transcendent, breathtaking movie, one that uses all the
digital tools of the trade to conjure life from a story that, technologically
speaking, probably couldn’t have been told five or six years ago. It’s full of genuine awe and terror and supreme
flights of cinematic imagination, with no capitulation to the pull of
standard-issue Disney-style anthropomorphizing-- the tiger that hitches a ride
with the title character after a horrifying shipwreck remains a mysterious and
potentially deadly companion whose persistent threat compels Pi to find ways to
survive. (That shipwreck, by the way, is far scarier and more frightfully
beautiful than anything James Cameron has yet committed to film.) And the movie
marks perhaps the best use of 3D I've ever seen in a narrative film to date--
it makes Hugo look like a cold piece
of clockwork.

Ang Lee takes his time in getting the story
cooking, in both visual and emotional terms. But even the movie's more placid
first third turns out to be a kind of blessing, through the contrast it
provides between the routine predicaments of daily life and the soaring
spectacle of a survival fable which seems to glow with a heightened, magical
reality that makes perfect emotional sense, especially as you tumble back
through it when the lights go up. It's a thrilling movie, a near-great one from
a director for whom consistency of vision has always seemed elusive. Life of Pi feels like a wondrous
summation of Lee's strengths as a filmmaker and a storyteller-- it has the
feeling of a story uniquely interpreted by someone whose destiny it was to tell
it through the magic of the movies.

And it also feels like a great summation of the
possibilities yet to be tapped within the realm of realistic and hyper-realistic
effects on screen, as well as the
great justification for the full-body plunge into CGI that has characterized
American and, increasingly, world cinema over the past 15 years or so. Experiencing
the spectacular beauty and fear and adrenaline and grace manifested by this
movie, watching that tiger interact with the unfortunate Pi, knowing that it
couldn’t possibly be real, yet unable to deny what my eyes, and my beating
heart, was telling me, and then reading of how it was done, and how little
screen time was actually taken up by a living, breathing creature, has only
increased my appreciation for the movie’s achievement. And yes, when I see articles designed
to highlight the movie's technical achievement (it has been nominated for a
Best Visual Effects Oscar along with 10 others), I can’t help but flash on
how far we’ve come in terms of the realistic representation of animals in
movies, not only since that inadequate little basset hound in the Times commercial of 15 or some years
ago, but even just in the last two or three years, when the digital stakes seem
to have been ramped up ever higher.

No, I didn’t ever really believe that Superman could fly. I didn’t believe
that digital basset hound for a second either, especially when it was sitting
right next to the real thing. But I believed in Richard Parker, Life of Pi’s triumphantly, magisterially
frightening Bengal tiger costar, and while watching Ang Lee’s movie I instantly believed
once again in the power of visual effects to do something other than just
strive for spectacle, for a hyper-realized representation of life, to make us
believe in the impossible. For those two hours the measure of what the movie
really achieved could be found in how it encourages us to remember why it’s
important to be able to imagine in the first place.

In a very real way, movies
like Life of Pi, and King Kong vs. Godzilla and Jason and the Argonauts and Trollhunter and even Zelig ask us, yes, to “believe” in what
we see, but they never allow us to forget to believe in ourselves too, as an
integral part of the storytelling process. These movies, minor and major feats
of imagination, don’t simply insist on paving imaginations over and supplanting
the spark inside with yet another recycled series of images. Instead they assist
in augmenting our own imaginations with grace notes of wonder and brash appeals
to our inner believer, encouraging us to make connections and leaps of faith as
we marvel and laugh and gasp at what they show us . Even as they take flight
they leave us with a bit of the work left to do for ourselves, that their
visions might stay buoyant, soaring through the air.

Tuesday, January 08, 2013

This week aficionados of colorful local folklore and the nooks and crannies of California culture lost one of their most vocal and sympathetic proponents. A Tennessee native, Huell Howser eventually came to make California, and the promotion of its working-class people, their arts, crafts, businesses and other contributions made under the relative radar of the culture at large, his very own sort of populist crusade. Armed with a single camera, a microphone and enough genuine enthusiasm and awe to either choke or convert the most hardened cynic, Howser spent the better part of 30 years traveling the state, visiting with the sort of folks usually found on the periphery of, or far away from the spotlight and producing programs for local public broadcasting hub KCET like California's Gold, California's Green, Downtown, Road Trip with Huell Howser and, yes, Visiting.

Last month Howser abruptly (or so it seemed then) retired, a prelude to his eventual death just a month later. On the occasion of that retirement author D.J. Waldie, in his fine remembrance entitled "The Darkness Beneath Huell Howser," identified the plain-spoken celebrity with a movement of Golden State immigrants known as "folks," a term coined by historian Kevin Starr to designate late 19th-century citizenry who came to California from Eastern and Southern parts of the U.S.-- Protestant, fundamentalist, mildly evangelical, narrow in conventional ways, stoic but also secretly yearning in melancholy for the quality of life they had left behind in their home states. It was this melancholy binding of the value of these common folks with which Waldie so eloquently tied Howser's legacy:

The “folks”—however much they were mocked by later, big-city migrants for their provincialism—defined the everyday culture and politics of California past the mid-20th century in their expectation that the state would remain permanently theirs. They managed one last triumph: the passage in 1978 of the Proposition 13 property tax limitation measure. State demographers now chart the back-migration of the last of the “folks” to former hometowns in Kansas, Missouri, southern Illinois, Tennessee, West Virginia, and Oklahoma—perhaps as many as two million departures since 1991...

Howser—Tennessee-born, drawling elongated vowels, bursting with enthusiasms—chose not to leave. He has never, despite playing the part on television, been genuinely one of the “folks.” For one, he’s better off than most of them, thanks to his business skill and a natural parsimony. He’s also fiercely unprejudiced. But the melancholy behind his fierce public niceness, the cheer that was supposed to make up for the regrets of the transplanted, still binds him to the “folks.” And it was in their service that he went everywhere in California and embraced every quirk of local circumstance, all the while delivering warm gusts of wonderment that were only partially synthetic. He showed them the California that they had dreamed of—completely harmless but always interesting. He wanted them to fall in love with their state. If only they had loved California as much as he needed to.

In 2006 the Southern California Drive-in Movie Society, cofounded a year earlier by myself, Sal Gomez, Kathy Beyers, Lanna Pian and Chris Utley with the goal of promoting the mini-renaissance of California drive-in movie culture that was flying in the face of the national downward trend toward extinction, played host to Huell Howser when he brought his Visiting with Huell Howser program to shoot an episode at the Mission Tiki Drive-in in Montclair, California. On that night we saw up close and personal that if Howser's legendary gregariousness, which had endeared him to working-class Joes and hipsters alike, was even partially an act, then it was a damn convincing one, and one that Howser seemed to wear as comfortably as the casual shirts, khakis and short pants in which is most often appeared on camera. Here's what I wrote on SLIFR back in 2006 about our evening with Huell raiding the snack bar and watching movies under the stars:

"Sal and I met (owners) Teri Oldknow, Frank Huttinger, Dave (the guy who is designing all the superb tiki decorations that are now on display at the Mission Tiki—with still more to come!) and new MT manager Todd out at the Tiki box offices, where we were joined by none other than KCET-TV’s own Huell Howser, producer and host of the very popular California's Gold series on KCET. Huell has made a very particular and popular art out of highlighting various wonderful, unusual, unheard-of aspects of California culture on his program, and thanks to Sal’s efforts, last night he and his cameraman (Cameron, perfectly enough) were there and shot an entire episode of California's Gold centering on the rejuvenated Mission Tiki and, yes, indeed, the Southern California Drive-in Movie Society.

It was great watching Huell go all guerilla-camera-tactics on unsuspecting folks who were in their cars waiting for the box office to open. In person he’s exactly the way he presents himself on camera—genuinely interested, fascinated, inquisitive and uber-friendly—and it was marvelous to watch the way he got people to open up and gab with him on camera. (At one point, he ambushed a little girl waiting with an armload of goodies as she came out of the snack bar line and demanded to know what she’d chosen from the voluminous menu—she giggled and detailed every item.) He spent a lot of time talking to folks in line, outside and inside, visiting the projection booth and telling stories of drive-ins of his youth. When it came time for his dinner, he sat down with us at the SoCalDIMS table and sampled (nay, pounded down enthusiastically) the premium chili dog with utter delight.

Then it came time for Sal and I to jump in the spotlight. Just before dusk, Huell and Cameron hustled us out to the lot on screen #3 and gave us our own little moment. And again, I feel it’s a tribute to Huell’s particular way of putting his subjects at ease, but I think both Sal and I comported ourselves rather well—pretty gregarious and well-spoken for a couple of drive-in geeks—and we breezed through our little segment, which Huell punctuated with continued praise when we finished (“You guys were greaaaaaat!”—Come on, you can hear him saying it, can’t you?)"

Howser did us one better by not only inviting us to come to KCET to watch him host live when the program aired as part of the end-of-summer fundraising drive. He also helped spearhead a KCET fundraising event at the drive-in a couple months later-- two screens and two great classic movie double features from which to choose. It was an honor then to have been able to talk with this local legend, and it's even more of one now that he's gone. And if you missed the drive-in episode, or any of the other scores of programs Howser produced, they've all now been made available online through the Chapman University Huell Howser Archive.

However, since you've taken the time to read this far, I've saved you the click by posting our drive-in episode right here. My favorite part of the show is not, in fact, the interview Huell does with Sal and I just before the sun goes down-- it's actually the part of the evening when our hosts ambushes unsuspecting patrons in their cars who have lined up for the evening's drive-in offerings-- the best is the man who casually admits that he' packed up his family of pre-teen kids to come out for opening night of the Miami Vice movie. Didn't faze Howser one bit. (Come of think of it, the part when Huell and his cameraman get lost on the Mission Tiki's vast lot is pretty choice too.)

Enjoy this episode, our SoCalDIMS encounter with Huell Howser, just one of the "folks" who just happened to make it his life's work, and our pleasure, to document the life in California that was familiar to most everyone in one form or other, but rarely celebrated with appreciation so unsullied by ironic winks and cooler-than-thou condescension. We missed Howser when he retired, we mourn him now, and we remember with this episode of Visiting just how much he contributed to the state of being a Californian.

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Tuesday, January 01, 2013

Joachim Trier's Oslo, August 31st, is a bracing, sustained feat of empathy. A young recovering drug addict named Anders (Anders Danielsen Lie) once again finds himself on the streets of the city where he grew up, and where his life slowly derailed, after being released from the recovery center he's about to graduate from for a job interview. The faint, encouraging glow of warmth from each encounter with old acquaintances, which he hopes will help introduce a new beginning, is soon replaced with a chilling sting when those embers fail, one by one, to fully ignite. From the beginning Trier deftly defines the protagonist against his environment-- nature provides no solace, and nor, finally, does the buzz of life in Oslo, filled as it is with people whose lives seem just starting, unencumbered by weight, by ghosts. Every frame Anders shares with friends and passers-by begins to feel more like a haunting, a constant reminder of connections long ago short-circuited and, of course, the ever-present option of the one spark that might take him to where he really wants to go. Oslo, August 31st is a movie that is profoundly sad but never suffocating or sensational-- it's a portrayal of an addict whose primary physical need is expressed almost exclusively in humanistic, spiritual terms and imagery, a need eloquently written on Anders' long, angular face, in his tired eyes, on the streets which course with the promise, and the denial, of sweet release.******************************************